Cisar was talkative enough, but Russell had the sense of someone calibrating his answers quite carefully. He was, he said, convinced that good films could be made in the current political climate, but the way he said it made you wonder whether they would be. ‘Let me put it this way-everyone knows that in capitalist countries commercial pressures distort the artistic process. Well, we have to admit it, so do political pressures in the new socialist countries. In both environments, artists have to make compromises that they don’t really want to make. And in both environments it’s possible to … I am looking for the right verb here, and the one that comes to mind is “smuggle”-so, it’s possible to smuggle good work past the distorters.’
‘So socialism offers no advantage to the artist?’
‘Oh, I didn’t say that. Under capitalism, the freedom to create is spurious, because it so rarely transcends the individual. Under socialism, the artist is invited, encouraged, to use his creativity for the society as a whole. Which means that in the more popular forms-like cinema-we can offer something more than shallow entertainment. There is a deeper purpose at work.’
The more Cisar talked, the more Russell wished he’d actually seen one of the man’s films. He remembered Effi being complimentary about one of them, and said as much to the director.
‘You are married to Effi Koenen! She is one my favourite German actors-some of her recent work with DEFA-well, it’s been superb. She always had a face made for the camera, but these days … Look,’ Cisar said, leaping up and striding across to the wall of pictures, ‘here she is in The Man I Shall Kill.’
And there she was, playing Greta Larstein. It wasn’t a still that Russell had seen before, and it felt strange finding it there, on a Prague apartment wall.
‘She doesn’t speak Czech by any chance?’
‘No.’
‘Well, maybe I will work in Berlin one day,’ he said, still looking at the photo. ‘What a face she has!’ He closed his eyes, as if picturing her in front of his camera.
As they said goodbye at the door, Cisar twice insisted that Russell pass on his respect and admiration for Effi’s recent work, and he loudly lamented the fact that any flowers he sent her would be dead before they reached Berlin.
Russell walked down to the river, pleased that someone Effi admired liked her so much in return. In the 1930s she had often seemed too good for the roles she was asked to play, but over the past few years most of the parts had given her talents full rein. At least one good thing had come out of their unfortunate Russian connections, he thought, as he walked out across the Legii Bridge. The Charles was divided by Strelecky Island at this point, and down to his left he could see the site of his first contact with the Resistance in the last month of peace, a bench now occupied by two old women. One day he would like to arrive in Prague with no clandestine meetings in prospect. Some hope.
Feeling hungry, Russell walked into the first decent-looking restaurant he found on Narodni. Anticipating a likely dearth of edible fare on his evening train, he ordered three courses and a bottle of expensive Moravian wine. The American taxpayers would have to fork up, which served them right for employing Winterman.
It was three P.M. by the time he got back to the Europa, which made packing and checking out a hurried affair, but the local clocks were only just striking the half-hour when he passed through the National Museum’s front entrance, the usual distance ahead of his StB shadow. After handing his suitcase in at the cloakroom, he leisurely sauntered on into the first gallery, abruptly changing pace the moment he was out of sight. His tail, having lost him, would have no choice but to stay with his luggage.
He found the back entrance without much trouble, lingered a while to make sure he had thrown off the shadow, then started down Rimska. He could already see the dark-red awning, a splash of colour in the grey stone street. Or perhaps, the thought crossed his mind, a red rag to a bull.
At least this treff, as the Soviets called such meetings, was in a public place. If the UDBA officers had shot him dead at Pograjac’s lonely Belgrade apartment, the rest of the world would have been none the wiser.
Only two of the tables were occupied, one by a middle-aged man in a suit, the other by a young woman in a blue summer dress. Both had folded newspapers in front of them.
As instructed, Russell ordered a cup of Viennese coffee. He still felt full from lunch, and one sip was sufficient to deter any more.
A shadow crossed his table, and the girl was standing over him, holding out the paper and saying something in Czech. The stress in her voice was palpable, but then she didn’t have an MGB help number.
‘Dekuji,’ he said with a smile, using up most of his Czech vocabulary.
She nodded abruptly and walked out through the open door.
He carefully opened the paper, making sure that anything falling out would land in his lap. An envelope did.
Knowing it was out of sight, he let it lie there while making a show of refolding the paper and examining its front page. He only recognised a few of the words, but the picture featured a smiling Klement Gottwald, surrounded by eager young children. After a few moments he held the paper up as if he was reading the bottom half, and slickly moved the envelope from lap to inside pocket.
It was time he got back to the museum. After digging out some coins for the tip, he headed for the street.
They were waiting on the pavement, two to the left and two to the right. He didn’t resist, but they insisted on frog-marching him to the paddy wagon and almost throwing him into the back. It was only when the door clanged shut that he realised the girl was there with him, tears already glistening on her cheeks. When he responded to her rapid-fire Czech with a shrug of incomprehension, she began to sob, and he took her in his arms.
The drive took fewer than five minutes, and they were separated on arrival in the cobbled courtyard. Russell was led down a flight of worn stone steps, past several cells of Thirty Years War vintage, and propelled through the empty door of the very last one. As he turned to protest, a fist rammed into his stomach, doubling him up and exposing the back of his neck to some sort of truncheon. This put him on his knees for a split second, before one boot tipped him over, and another took the wind from his chest. He was still laboriously trying to curl himself up when he heard the cell door slam.
After lying there for a few minutes, he painfully manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, up against the wall. He had no memory of their being taken, but watch, wallet and affidavits were gone. So too was his ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, the local MGB’s telephone number. He had taken the precaution of memorising it, but the recent assault had apparently scrambled his memory.
It was at least two hours before they came back for him. This time there was no violence, just more stone steps and cold efficiency. He reckoned the room he ended up in was on the third floor, but the lack of a window meant he couldn’t be sure. This lack was comforting, though-the Czechs were famous for their defenestrations.
The latest interrogator shared traits with several of his predecessors-a uniform pressed within an inch of its life, a fussy way with his hands, and a smugness quotient of around 200 percent. This one’s name was Colonel Hanzelka, and the only remaining question was whether or not he was also a sadist.